


Like a fella once said

by anonissue



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Bladder Control, Extremely Dubious Consent, Handsome Jack/Rhys - Freeform, I'm Also Going To Hell, I'm just going to go ahead and toss a, M/M, No actual sex, Omorashi, Tales from the Borderlands, Watersports, also in this universe rhys feels sensation when the Jack AI passes along or through his skin, and hands on junk, and sexual humiliation, but explicit because a lot of things, even though it's not really watersports, including unexpected arousal, listen I'm sorry, tag onto this puppy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:16:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5342096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonissue/pseuds/anonissue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene/AU from Tales from the Borderlands Episode 3.</p><p>Rhys gets up in the middle of the night just trying to go to the bathroom off the top of the caravan in the middle of the Pandoran desert. Jack decides that this is clearly also the best time to re-pitch their partnership to Rhys. Unsurprisingly, it's not. Things don't go well at all.</p><p>
  <b>THIS IS UNFINISHED and likely staying that way.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a fella once said

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't even remotely beta'd, and yeah I don't know, it was supposed to be a blowjob fic. It's not a blowjob fic. Please don't burn me at the stake.

It's a rare thing, Rhys having the roof of the caravan to himself. Privacy in and of itself has become a rare thing since he and Vaughn committed all-in to this fool's errand on Pandora, but for Rhys, privacy -- true privacy -- hasn't been possible since the discovery of Gortys. Since the derisive laugh that materialized in his skull after pocketing Nakayama's ID credentials and coming up with the _genius_ idea of plugging something unknown and Hyperion into his data port. Since Jack.

Rhys grips the side-railing of the caravan a little tighter. Loader Bot and Gortys are downstairs navigating the desert for the night in the group's perpetual sprint towards the coordinates of the robot's next upgrade, Athena is doing... whatever Athena does, when nobody's looking (Rhy's money is on messaging Janey sweet nothings, but he'll die before admitting that within Athena's earshot), and last he checked, Sasha and Fiona were asleep so hard on top of each other on the couch by the table, they had conjoining rivers of drool carving pathways across each other's faces. Rhys had agreed to take night watch up top over Vaughn mostly because Vaughn wanted a chance to try and go over the raw data feeds they were still able to access on Helios' servers since the moonshotting they'd endured a few weeks ago, and Rhys wasn't really up to helping him in any way shape or form.

If he were being perfectly honest, it's more that Rhys isn't quite sure how much of himself, especially the networked parts of himself, he should be trusting right now. Jack hadn't exactly been subtle in his displeasure when Rhys had been stupid enough to blurt out how he'd been feeling ever since Jack's "help" in getting everyone out of the Atlas facility alive.

_"I-- I know I've done some kinda ehh things, but we're a team here, kiddo. And you can even ask Athena, I always look out for my team. So I'm just asking you to trust me here. We've got so much in common: we're both ambitious, we're both super hot--"_

_"W-well, you're a-- genocidal maniac, so no?"_

Rhys winces just remembering it. The deadly calm, the split-second of furious anger that had flitted across Jack's expression at Rhy's stumbling refusal.

_"Oh, that's a shame. Because I thought-- I thought we were becoming pals. Saved your life back there, and you still don't trust me? You know, I've had to deal with this my whole damn life. You try to do the right thing, and people just... crap all over you for it. Well, congrats kiddo. You're the latest in a long line of Jack-shitters."_

There had been something so insidious about Jack's movements, about Jack's words. Something in the way the hologram had moved, in the words, set Rhys on edge hours earlier hearing it, and was still wiggling and alive under his skin now hours later recalling it.

 _"Super psyched about it,"_ Jack had hissed. _"Oh, and uh, pissing off the guy you're sharing a body with? Pretty goddamn stupid. But hey, I'll see you around."_

The Handsome Jack AI had been quiet since, not one wise-crack, not one awkwardly appearing appendage in the middle of erstwhile conversations with Rhy's buddies, nothing. It fills Rhys with a strange sense of elation, and a strange sense of melancholy, a longing for companionship with something more concrete. Rhys thinks, sighing, sitting on the cold metal carapace of the rattling vehicle, that's what Jack is after all, something fleeting. Not the real deal, just an echo of the man stuck in one seriously messed-up piece of code. There's a part of Rhys utterly unwilling to tarnish the bizarre and admittedly disconnected reverence he has for Handsome Jack -- not because he believes the man was incapable of heinous acts, but because that enduring reverence has been responsible for so much of his drive and ambition, for the very path that landed Rhys here on Pandora ass-first. A part of Rhys is utterly convinced he owes Jack something, and it's a struggle not to try and pay the echo of Jack that's taken up residence in Rhys' head the homage his mind believes Rhys owes the real Handsome Jack.

"You're a piece of work," Rhys sighs out loud and is terribly unsure if he means Jack, Nakayama, or himself.

The rattling of rocks and bones under-tire are Pandora's only response, and sure enough, the rhythmic rocking of the vehicle as it totters along the road has Rhys soon sitting down and propping himself up against the edges of the metal sheeting run through with the deep fall chill rather than risk having to puke from the start of motion sickness. Uneasy and a little queasy is how Rhys finds himself as his eyes start to droop closed against the stark clear sky, Helios starting its ascent, the tip of the H-shaped bridges just cracking the horizon.

Rhys doesn't remember dreaming, but he doesn't need to.

*

It's much later because he's cold, but Rhys wakes up suddenly, half-startled, mouth drier than Rakk-shit left out in the sun to bake. He also *really* has to pee, and yeah, that's. Rhys feels his face heating as he realizes he's piss-hard, reaching down to adjust himself and trying to surreptitiously scout out if anyone's come up to the roof in the meantime. Thankfully, he has no reason to be embarrassed; the roof still appears to be empty, the caravan moving at a steady rocking towards the far plains. The sky is a bright cobalt between the brightening of the sky and true dawn, and in the shadows, Pandora is -- remarkably -- beautiful. Rhys sighs, sits up, stretches. Finds his legs with the help of the railing, and starts to stumble-step over to the back of the railing, nature calling past the curtain of sleep.

Rhys steadies himself with his left hand, his mechanical right reaching for his fly, easing it down gently over where his underwear are filled out more than strictly comfortable. He hasn't even managed to take his hand off the fly before he hears:

"You know what, cupcake? You're right. I really haven't given you much of a reason to trust me." And electricity skates like a stiff breeze across the back of Rhys' hands as Jack's own blue and luminous ones push out from the flesh of Rhys' hipbones to cover his lone one gripping the rail hard enough to white out the tips of his fingers.

" _What_ the hell, Jack --" Rhys tries not to yelp.

"But trust," and it feels like Jack's purring into his ear, now, and Rhys has to wonder at how the AI is fooling his body into assigning audible distances to Jack's voice. "Is really only one way to establish a working relationship. There are other methods, kid. Love, admiration, for example. Those two don't require trust to create something of a remarkable bond between two people."

"If this is where you expect me to trust you with the lives of my friends just because I have a deep, professional admiration for your successes, you're going to be sorely dis-- _ah_ ," Rhys manages, holding himself as still as possible as his own damnable prosthetic squeezes -- not at all gently -- at his fairly exposed crotch.

"You know what else doesn't require trust?" Jack continues as if Rhys weren't even there. "Fear. Pain. Terror. They just require the blind, animal-stupid instinct to ensure your continued survival. And as dumb as you are, Rhysie, you're still probably at least as smart as a half-retarded skag, so maybe I've just been giving you too much credit. Maybe," and now Jack is squeezing hard enough vicariously through the limb he's taken over that Rhys is unbalanced and on his tip-toes trying to push back and away from the crushing grip. "Maybe I just need to treat you to a little more simple math."  
  
It continues, and it continues long enough that Rhys is struggling not to make noise because there is just no way he could possibly hope to explain this to any one coming up to the roof looking to make sure he's OK. He can feel sweat prickling under his collar despite the cold weather, every muscle straining to keep as much of himself out of his own grip as possible. Rhys needs to figure out a way to fail-safe his arm, he needs to figure out a way to get Jack  _out of his head_ \--

"There's a real easy way to get me to stop, pumpkin," Jack murmurs in artifice of intimacy, and Rhys is damned if he can't hear the smile in the digitally projected voice. "Don't tell me you don't know the magic words."

Rhys figures pride, of all things, has never really been one of his shortcomings, not with all the ass-kissing that went into clawing his way up the Hyperion ladder. And while it'd be a lie to say it doesn't burn a little, it's not per se a hard decision to grit his teeth and manage a fairly steady:

"Please."

"Oh, c'mon Rhysie, you can do better than that," Jack scoffs, clenching tighter for good measure. Holding in the yelp Rhys wants to let loose at the frank pain that shoots up from his groin is harder than giving in to Jack's methods of persuasion. 

" _Pretty_ please," Rhys bites out. He can't stop himself from wriggling a little bit in Jack's grasp, and the fact that he's getting nothing, the fact that Jack's projection moved it's arms out of Rhys' view ages ago and the burning has Rhys strung out enough not to even be able to turn his head and look around for where he's sure, his positive, Jack is floating, smirking, watching Rhys squirm, it rankles Rhys not a little bit. "Jack, c'mon, seriously I need. I -- "

Rhys prays he's mumbled that last bit quietly enough not to have Jack come sniffing, but -- "You need to what?" And _shit_ , but yeah, nope. Rhys may have a diminished sense of pride, but he is not going to ask Jack for permission to be left alone long enough to pee.

"Huh?" Rhys tries for casual confusion, and knows the second Jack materializes floating in front of him just past the edge of the railing that he's missed by a mile. The grip on the front of Rhys' boxers even eases up, and it makes Rhys feel stupidly safe. He can move his own prosthetic once again, and it's all pins and needles -- Rhys doubts that will ever stop feeling so incredibly alien that he feels compelled to stumble and work his fist open and shut while staring at his metal palm, entranced by something as simple as its cooperation.

"You gonna tell me what you were doing running around with your pants half-undone before I showed up, Rhysie?"

"Not if I have a choice," Rhys half laughs, unintentionally forthright, and then stops. And winces, hard.  
  
"Would it make it easier for you if you didn't?" Jack asks, calmer than the eye of a particularly vicious storm.  "Because that can be arranged."

"Jesus," Rhys mutters, and manages to gather enough of himself to glare right at Jack who just has his head cocked to the side, eyes locked and unblinking on Rhys looking exactly like the hard-to-find archive footage of himself younger and elbows deep in wires and circuits, fully engaged. Rhys swallows, and continues. "I need to pee, OK? So if you could stop terrorizing me for five minutes while I --" and Rhys waves vaguely in the direction of the back wheels of the caravan. "Relieve myself. It would be much appreciated."

"Oh, well, nature calls. Don't not take care of yourself on my account." Jack waves a hand in front of his face, dismissing the idea of Rhys waiting for him to leave like Rhys' demand for privacy was somehow about not offending Jack's sensibilities.

Rhys is pretty sure nothing could be further from the truth. He runs his tongue over his top teeth to try and distract himself from the flush of embarrassment trying to make an encore performance. It's suddenly damnably difficult to maintain eye contact with Jack.

"Sure thing. Just as soon as you, y'know, _leave_."

"You do know I'm always with you, right Rhysie? There's no leaving you."

And yeah, Rhys had a feeling the Jack AI had a way of monitoring him without actually being visibly present, but it makes a difference to him, that Jack is still in his line of vision and watching him. Rhys knows Jack knows that. And considering all that, maybe Rhys should actually have less hang-ups about peeing in front of Jack's visible form, but something about the idea works like a tine under his skin and makes his teeth itch. It's feels like more leverage he's just handing neatly packaged to Jack, and surprise surprise! there are, actually, a few parts of himself Rhys would like to keep for himself, so. It's in this precise moment that Rhys' overly full bladder feels the need to re-exert its pressing case by sending a more than distracting jolt of -- well. Something, up his back. Something too determined to straddle discomfort and the kind of overbearing fullness that doesn't feel like punishment so much as reward. The remnants of his body's attempt at stopping Rhys from pissing himself while asleep (severely dampened by Jack's earlier unforgiving grip) twitch against his thigh.

"Look, seriously, is there a point to you being this obtuse?" Rhys feels skittish being this frank with a frankly malicious part of his implanted ECHO interface, but he is starting to really, really need to pee. "Or could you please actually leave me alone for a few to pee without a visible audience?"

"I could, but," Jack shrugs, lazy, amused. "I'd miss out on you getting all cute and flustered. Where's the fun in that?"

Of course, Rhys thinks, trying not to grind his teeth. Of course this all about fun for Jack. In a fit of pique and something approaching hysteria, Rhys opts for telling Jack the truth.

"I have a shy bladder."

"What?" Jack asks, almost incredulous.

"A shy bladder. I can't," Rhys tries. "I actually can't pee when other people are watching. It's a thing. Look it up, you're already on the ECHO net."

"I know what paruresis is, kid," and Jack almost sounds thoughtful, if slightly distracted.

His electric blue form floats forwards until it's hovering over the deck of the caravan a few inches in front of Rhys. The projection of Jack unfolds its legs and mimics standing, putting himself a few inches under Rhys, but no less commanding. He squints slightly, like he's really looking at Rhys for the first time, and walks a slow circle around him that Rhys has to physically stop himself from following with his eyes. It feels like he's being inspected, like he's livestock. Rhys'd be more annoyed about it if his bladder didn't feel like it was about to explode. After an ambling circle around Rhys' tense form, Jack clucks and frowns.

"Yeah, no, we can't have that."

"You can't have what," Rhys intones, frustration leaking into his words. He stares at his shoes, afraid of what he'll do or say if he actually manages to hold Jack's gaze now.

"Listen, the next CEO of Hyperion can't be some pansy-ass, shoe-gazing hipster fuck who can't even abide by the thought of letting loose all over the shoes and prostrated forms of the local Pandoran wildlife. A man's gotta be able to fuck with an audience, kill with an audience, and shit with an audience. Or in this case," Jack acquiesces. "Piss with an audience. I'm going to help you with this, kiddo. And you're going to thank me for it later, trust me."

 _What_ , Rhys thinks, but can't say. He has no clue what Jack is on about regarding the next Hyperion CEO, or even what he's suggesting about Rhys somehow coming to trust him. He definitely resents the pot-shots at his fashion choices; Rhys doesn't need Jack to tell him he dresses excellently, it's something Rhys already knows about himself, poured in a like a concrete truth. But Rhys says none of this, Rhys just blinks.

"Or, hah," Jack smirks now, turning to look to his left, briefly gazing at nothing, before turning back to stare right at Rhys. "Maybe not  _trust_ me, but. You will thank me, pumpkin. I'm gonna make sure of it."

 

\----

 

TBC, too tired to finish writing this tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> There's always that moment when you wonder if you should bother posting something that's this ridiculous up on AO3 because you're scared that people will see you for the dumpster-dwelling troll you actually are and nobody will ever talk to you again. And yeah, that happened with this fic, but the upside I figure is that if even one of you out there in Borderlands fandom feels like this was worthwhile, you should [totally come find me on Tumblr and friend me](http://midgemong.tumblr.com). Shit like this is always better with friends to commiserate with.


End file.
